Page 142 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir
Thirty-eight this time before the lock engages.
I file that away.
My hands curl into fists under the table.
Not because I’m afraid.
Because I amdonebeing underestimated.
I don’t hearthe first kill.
I feel it.
Like a shift in air pressure. Like gravity changes direction for a second, then rights itself violently. The guards outside my door fall silent. No scuffle, no warning.
Just silence.
That’s worse than noise.
I rise from the cot in the corner, fists clenched, heart slamming against my ribs.
Then the door opens.
And Kalev walks through like he’s been summoned by something more primal than thought.
He’s bleeding.
Not his blood.
His expression is stone. Eyes black as void, set in a face that doesn’t blink. He moves like inevitability—smooth, clean, controlled.
Behind him, the hallway looks like the aftermath of a god’s temper.
He stops in front of me. Reaches out. Hands like anchors, steady and unshaking, settle on my shoulders. His fingers dig in just enough to remind me I’m real. Thatthisis real.
“You alright?” he asks.
My throat locks.
I nod once.
He pulls me in without hesitation.
For one breathless second, everything disappears. The room. The fear. The blood. I bury my face in his neck and inhale the scent of sweat and gun oil and something older—something that smells like safety.
When we break apart, his voice is rough. “Where’s Clancy?”
“They separated us. North wing, I think. I haven’t seen him.”
He nods once.
And then he’s moving.
Fast.
Efficient.
I trail him down the corridor, feet slipping a little on the tile. The bodies are everywhere—unconscious or dead, I don’t ask. Kalev doesn’t pause to explain. He justmoves.
